


Dress You Up (In My Love)

by ZehWulf



Series: In Any Way, Shape, or Form [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Clothing & Intimacy, Clothing As Part of Gender Expression, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gender Fluid Character, Gift Giving, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Partners (Good Omens), Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Lingerie, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Praise Kink, Shopping, but honestly angels have no set gender, but no actual sex in this fic, gender expression, gender fluid aziraphale, gender fluid crowley, hair petting, sensual snuggles, sex-favorable asexual relationship, some Outsider POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22169137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf
Summary: It starts because Aziraphale decides he wants to buy some lingerie, and Crowley will be damned again if she isn’t going to be on hand to see how that goes down. Then, somehow, it snowballs. Look, sometimes, an angel and a demon just want to wear and buy each other nice (intimate) things.Sequel to “A Woman Shaped Being of the World.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: In Any Way, Shape, or Form [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1575490
Comments: 75
Kudos: 243
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Good Omens Big Bang. Story by ZehWulf, art by [Marleenam](https://marleenam.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Sequel to "[A Woman Shaped Being of the World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20359714),” although it isn't necessary to read that fic first to understand what's going on. :)
> 
> All love to beta extraordinaire, [onlysmallwings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/onlysmallwings/).

When the bell over the shop door jingles at half-past two, Leah looks up from organizing the remaining items of last season's stock in the clearance bin to size up the potential customers.

The woman that swaggers in is sixty percent sharply suited leg, thirty percent riotously curly ginger hair, and twenty percent red-painted smirk. Leah realizes, vaguely, that the percentages don't quite work out, but the wicked cut of the charcoal gray suit the woman is wearing makes her think that the specifics of numbers—chiefly, any to do with money—probably don't matter much to this woman.

The man that follows in her wake—who was, Leah realizes, just holding the door for the woman—is also wearing a suit but in the exact opposite direction. If the woman looks like she just stepped off a runway in Prague, complete with three-inch stilettos and designer sunglasses, the man looks like he just stepped off the stage of a Dickens production. He has an absently cheerful look on his cherubic face as he folds his hands behind him and peers around the shop, sunlight gleaming off the white froth of curls on his head. They look so incongruous that it's not until the woman nudges the man with her elbow and directs his attention to the corsets section with a jerk of her chin that Leah realizes they didn't just happen to arrive at the store at the same time but are, in fact, together.

"Welcome to The Boudoir," Maude greets from behind the service counter. She founded the boutique some thirty years ago with a firm belief in all shapes, all persuasions, and fair wages. Leah kind of wants to be her when she grows up. "Anything in particular we can help you find today?" she asks with the sort of twinkly smile that Leah had formerly thought only belonged to mildly scandalous dowager aunts in regency romances.

The man, who is wearing an honest-to-god fob watch on his velvet waistcoat, practically blooms into a happy smile. Leah feels she might need to blink away afterimages. "Oh!" he says, and then he wrinkles his nose up in a conspiratorial grin, "I should think so, yes." He rocks forward on his toes and back again and tilts his head up to beam at the woman next to him. And he does have to tilt up, because while she's a tall woman in her own right, she's practically towering over him in her pointy stilettos.

Despite herself, Leah is a bit charmed. Men coming in to pick out racy underwear together with their girlfriends or mistresses or—sometimes, refreshingly—their wives as a sort of awkwardly public foreplay is depressingly common. But at least here the man looks genuinely besotted with the woman and, judging by the little dimples tugging at the woman's cheek, she with him. They even look to be about the same age.

"We're going to browse, first," the woman drawls, tucking her hands in her pockets and swiveling her head around, taking in the contents of the little store. She still hasn't taken her sunglasses off. Leah pastes on a professional smile when the woman's gaze (presumably) pauses on her. The woman tilts her head consideringly, and suddenly Leah feels seen in a way she has not once felt in her long years in retail. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"Do let us know if you need any recommendations, or if you'd like to try anything on," Maude continues. "We provide professional fittings free of charge. We also have a sitting area where your young man can have a glass of bubbly while you try things on. A bit of modeling is perfectly fine, so long as everyone minds their manners." It's the standard speech Maude gives any couple that comes in, one designed to set boundaries early. She absolutely will (and has) throw people out who get too rude for the kind of a-bit-naughty-but-still-classy establishment she runs.

The woman's smile stretches a touch feral, and that spooky feeling Leah got earlier intensifies. "Oh, I think we'll be taking you up on that offer, but the glass of bubbly will be for me. He'll be doing the modeling," she says, draping a proprietary arm across the man's shoulders. The man in question shoots her the same sort of exasperated look Leah's mum gives her dad when he's being deliberately trying at a family function.

"Oh!" Maude says, and blinks, then blinks again for good measure, but to her professional credit simply says, "Of course. Forgive the assumption. You'll want to look at the racks in that corner over there, then. A bit friendlier for his shape." She indicates the corner with the exclusively full-figure brands they carry.

Leah finds herself reexamining the couple with renewed interest. They don't often get male clients, and when they do, they either come with a male partner or, if not, come alone and either refuse to make more than shy, slightly mortified eye contact while they hurriedly make their purchases or are the type that Maude unceremoniously kicks out the moment they begin making suggestive comments to Leah or one of the other women employees. The man has drifted toward a rack of the more retro, french silk numbers they carry, which tracks with vibe of his outfit. He reaches out and takes a corner of the knickers between fingers that, even at this distance, Leah can tell are immaculately manicured and sporting a pearlescent sheen over the nails.

"Oh, my dear, look at how pretty these are. And this silk is exquisite," he says, tone noticeable for its complete lack of nervous giggle or husky innuendo. He's admiring a pair of silk and lace unmentionables the same way Leah might consider a nice blouse.

"White, angel? Really?" the woman says, and plucks a wasp-waisted, black-and-red leather corset from a nearby rack. She twists it back and forth admiringly and then waggles it suspended from the tip of a finger in the periphery of the man's vision with a suggestive arch of her eyebrows. He glances at it, does a double-take, and levels her with a frown so disapproving Leah feels the sudden urge to start straightening something in mute apology.

"Be reasonable, darling," he starts, but then abruptly stops and looks from the corset to the woman with a small purse to his lips. "Unless. Are we shopping for you today as well?" he asks politely. "That would look rather fetching on you, though I can't expect it would be comfortable."

Interestingly, the woman, who up until this point has radiated cool smugness like a fine cologne, blushes a deep red and fumbles the corset back to its place on the rack.

"No, we're here for you," she mutters and, after a pause, says, "And leather chafes. Only worth it in a professional capacity."

The man nods seriously, like he's committing this bit of information to memory.

Who, Leah thinks to herself, the flippin' hell are these two.

.

.

.

Across the shop, Crowley's seriously considering giving this whole enterprise up as a bad job. In retrospect, it was foolish of her not to anticipate how quickly Aziraphale would be able to turn this back around to something designed to give her a heart attack.

Then, the sharp ache of desire cuts across her senses, and she cuts a glance from behind her sunglasses at the shop girl folding a pile of loose merchandise into size-marked bins in the clearance section. It's not the sort of desire Crowley might expect in a shop like this, especially for anyone eavesdropping on her and the angel's current conversation. There's nothing sexual to it. It's the kind of desire she sometimes feels from the angel when he's stumbled upon autobiographic historical accounts of a place and time neither of them experienced firsthand.

Crowley lets a self-satisfied smirk tug her lips. When they'd walked in, she'd unfurled a bit of demonic influence, seeing what sort of prospects there might be to inspire a bit of harmless lust in the shop occupants. The older woman woman behind the counter, though staunchly heterosexual, had nevertheless, under the inspiration of what one might consider infernal pheromones, cast a briefly appreciative eye on Crowley's legs. The younger one hadn't reacted in the slightest.

"Angel," she murmurs, drawing Aziraphale's attention from a suspender belt he's holding before him with a speculative gleam to his eyes.

He turns to her with an inquisitive hum, and she tips her glasses down just enough so he can see her cut a covert glance toward the young woman across the shop. Aziraphale, bless him, immediately swivels his entire body toward the woman, an expectant tilt to his eyebrows as he plainly looks her over to see what Crowley is trying to tip him off to.

"You are impossible," Crowley hisses quietly. But apparently he hasn't made a complete hash of it, because the young woman is headed their way. Aziraphale's completely unsubtle stare is being interpreted as an unspoken request for assistance. Which, Crowley supposes, is fair enough in a shop like this.

"Can I help you with anything?" the young woman asks upon approach, a service-industry smile fixed on her face. "Did you need to see any of those in different sizes or colors?" She gestures discreetly at the growing number of hangers suspended from Aziraphale's hand.

Crowley opens her mouth to craft an invitation, but Aziraphale beats her to it.

"As a matter of fact," and here the angel makes a show of reading the name tag affixed to the woman's blouse, " _Leah_ , I believe I'd like to try a few things on, and Anthony here will be in need of her glass of something 'bubbly.'" He beams and pops the B on "bubbly" with too much enthusiasm for Crowley's nerves, but the woman—Leah—seems if not exactly charmed at least not put off by the ridiculous angel.

"Of course," she says. "I can take these back and get one of the rooms set up for you?" She holds out a hand expectantly, and Aziraphale transfers his selections with only a minor amount of fumbling.

"Oh thank you, my dear," he says, practically glowing with effusive thanks. Crowley's eyes are beginning to water. He's laying it on a bit thick, she thinks, but then he hesitates to speak, mouth opening and closing fractionally with anxiety. Oh, she thinks, and leans back to let her angel do what she's come to think of his version of a temptation.

"Leah, if I can be completely candid with you, I'm not well versed in selecting intimate things, and I'm afraid I'm not sure what would fit or look best." He flashes her a quick, nervous smile. "Might you or the lovely proprietress be comfortable with, er, assisting Anthony and myself?" He wrings his hands in front of him, a hopeful smile at war with the partially resigned cant of his eyebrows. Crowley inwardly shudders. Aziraphale's trick to get strangers to do what he wants more or less boils down to asking point blank and then letting the person see every vulnerable emotion roiling inside play out on his face. It's like trying to turn down an exceptionally sad-eyed golden retriever who is, after all, only asking you for a bit of a head pat. Magnificent bastard.

The performance—though Crowley knows Aziraphale would be affronted to hear her call it such—has the predicted outcome: Leah's eyes widen in dismay, and she rushes to assure them she'd be happy to help out, no trouble at all, right this way, and does he have any particular Looks he's trying to achieve?

Aziraphale natters on happily about foundation garments, loungewear, and more playful pieces.

"You see, I'm quite the fan of finer materials—how they look, how they feel," he's confiding to Leah as they lay out a few ensembles on the damask-covered bench in the changing room. Crowley lounges in the open doorway, glass of champagne dangling from her fingertips, admiring the way the angel's light draws the young woman like she's a nervously budding flower. "And while I've never felt bound by, well, the vagaries of fashion—" Crowley snorts, and Aziraphale shoots her an annoyed glance before turning his cheerful exuberance back on the young woman. "—I've always limited myself to a particular gender presentation. Anthony has been supporting me as I expand my horizons."

Leah glances back at Crowley, and the demon can practically see the cogs whirling in the poor thing's brain as she obviously yet again resets her assumptions about what sort of dynamic they have going on here. Crowley heroically resists raising her glass in an ironic toast of "fuck if I know any given day, so godspeed, sweetheart."

After some instructions and suggestions about what order to put the individual pieces on in and tricks to get them affixed when working solo, Leah backs out of the changing room and she and Crowley leave Aziraphale to put on the first ensemble. Crowley sprawls in one of the rococo-inspired upholstered chairs in the private lounge facing the three small changing rooms. Leah leaves and returns quickly, having fetched a few bustiers from stock that should be the right fit for a man-shaped ribcage and the angel's generous belly.

She passes them over the top of the changing room door, with an admonishment that if Aziraphale has any trouble with the hooks to give a shout. He reassures her he's getting on all right, and Leah retreats to the space next to Crowley's chair. The demon can feel the weight of her curiosity like a decadent port on the back of the tongue. Still, this is retail, and Leah has so far presented as quite professional, so Crowley figures this is one of those instances where she'll have to pop the bubble of tension.

"On a scale of one to ten, how high do we rank on your list of weird clients?" Crowley murmurs, tipping her face up with a sympathetic sort of smirk.

Leah blinks down at her, obviously startled to be addressed directly, since thus far Crowley's been content to let Aziraphale carry the conversation. She visibly wars with whether to answer professionally or honestly, and Crowley let's a bit of her real grin leak out in invitation.

"Oh, no higher than a seven," Leah says after a beat, a small flush rising on her cheeks.

"A _seven_ ," Crowley echoes and clucks her tongue, bringing her glass up to her mouth but not taking a sip. "Must be losing our touch. Or else this place isn't as classy as the Yelp reviews led me to believe." She keeps her tone gently teasing, hoping to draw the young woman out a bit. Crowley finds inspiring the queer ones she runs across particularly satisfying. Aziraphale would call it a kindness, helping them be braver in their true selves, but Crowley insists it's about the chaos of leaning in to deviance, damning the man, blowing up the establishment, et cetera.

Leah grants her a small, real smile. "How long have you been together?" she asks.

Crowley bobbles her head consideringly. "Depends on how you define together, I suppose. We've been partners—friends—for what feels like forever. We've only been doing more intimate things the past few months."

They're interrupted by the click of the door opening and Aziraphale stepping out, looking shyly pleased with himself. Taupe-colored seamed stockings are held up by garters attached to an elaborately appliqued silk-and-lace suspender belt that gently encircles his belly. Matching knickers peek out from beneath. The look is completed by a matching longline bra with a column of lace climbing the silk from his belly all the way up to the cups, where the fabric becomes completely sheer. The overall impression is refined, practical, but still potently risqué.

"Oh, well done, you two," Crowley says approvingly. "Give us a spin, angel."

Aziraphale pinks but obligingly pivots around on his toes and looks back over his shoulder with his hands on his hips. It's such an obvious pose that Crowley can't help a delighted cackle. The knickers and bra are sheer in the back, showing off the angel's full bum, and the garters create pleasing dimples along the backs of his thighs where they grasp the tops of the stockings. Crowley traces the seams of the stockings with her eyes, down over Aziraphale's shapely calves to the pleasing arch of his feet. A covert glance at Leah reveals a small, stunned-looking smile, but when Crowley breathes in through her mouth she doesn't detect any hint of lustful pheromones. Definitely one of theirs, then.

"This feels absolutely extraordinary," Aziraphale enthuses, and ruins whatever mystique he was going for with the provocative pose by puttering over to the angled mirrors at the back of the lounge and stepping up on the short pedestal to admire himself more fully.

Leah follows behind and helps adjust the angel's bra straps, encouraging him to lean and wiggle while she holds the top edges, "so everything settles in properly." Aziraphale performs an admirable shimmy, as instructed, and Crowley heads off the fond guffaw that tries to burst free as a result with a glug of champagne.

"Oh, that is better," Aziraphale says. "And what exquisite craftsmanship! Leah, my dear, I'm so glad you recommended this one."

"Of course," Leah replies, sounding a bit flustered and returning closer to Crowley's chair.

"You're as pretty as a picture," Crowley says, sufficiently recovered that she can raise her glass in an easy toast. Aziraphale finds her gaze in the mirror's surface and gives her a besotted smile.

"Thank you, darling," he says, so much naked affection in his tone it calls an unexpected blush to Crowley's ears.

"All right, no need to get soppy," she snarks and hides behind another sip of champagne. The glass obligingly refuses to dip below half full.

"I don't think I've worn stockings and garters, let alone shapewear, since Victoria's court," the angel continues blithely. "I'd forgotten how cosy they can feel when fitted properly." He runs a contemplative hand over the curve of his belly. "Though I must say, I do appreciate what they're able to do with elastics these days."

"Were you in a historical production?" Leah asks with polite interest.

"Er," the angel says, freezing and throwing Crowley a discretely terrified look in the mirror.

Crowley thinks he likes Leah, so he takes pity for her sake. "No, he's just one of those types who's popular in those circles—what are they called—where everyone dresses up like it's the turn of the bloody century—not the one with frosted tips, the one before that." Crowley throws her head back in satisfaction as it comes to her: "Reenactors—that's them. He has a whole wardrobe full of unfashionable rags."

Aziraphale turns around properly to scowl at her. "I'll have you know, everything I own is..." He loses steam as he waves a hand vaguely. "Well, I believe they call it ' _retro_.'"

"They do _not_ ," Crowley says, baring too many teeth in a red-slicked smile. "Leah, tell him."

"I'll just fetch that set in the blue like you were asking after and some more champagne," Leah says, and flees. Aziraphale gives Crowley the angelic stinkeye.

The angel tries on three more ensembles in varying shades of cream, peach, baby blue, and taupe. Each are varying levels of naughty, though nothing that would be uncomfortable to wear under his clothes or to lounge in.

"I think this is my favorite," Crowley pronounces as Aziraphale steps out in a pair of blue French silk knickers that reach mid thigh and sport embroidered white flowers and a dainty, lacey fringe. The matching camisole skims over his soft belly, with just enough flare that it flutters nicely when he turns this way and that in the mirrors to get a better look from all sides.

"I thought it would be," Aziraphale says with smug satisfaction as he steps down from the mirrors and pads close enough that Crowley can reach out and take the hem of the camisole between the tips of her fingers and get a firsthand feel of the soft texture.

This is, by far, the tamest set the angel has tried on, and Crowley can feel Leah's curiosity thrumming beside her like a living thing.

Aziraphale surprises her again by taking the initiative in the conversation.

"It's her favorite because it's the one she'll find most comfortable snuggling up to," Aziraphale confides to the young woman, his grin downright puckish. "The rest are for me alone—well, I suppose Anthony does like to look—but this one is for the both of us. We're neither of us very sexual creatures, but we are quite sensual." Of course, then he completely crosses the line by capturing Crowley's hand and bringing it up to press a chaste kiss to her fingertips.

"For Someone's sake, angel, not in front of the kid," Crowley splutters. The soft faces he makes sometimes when he looks at her. Someone should outlaw them.

Beside them, Leah sounds like she's choking on either a laugh or a scream, so at least Crowley isn't alone in finding Aziraphale a Bit Much.

Crowley uses Leah's reaction as an excuse to determinedly turn her face away from where Aziraphale is still gently holding her hand and rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. She catches Leah's eye and arches a brow. "You've practically got a question mark hovering over your head. Go on. Ask what you want to ask." Another few seconds and she thinks she'll have just about convinced the blood in her corporation to go back about its normal damn business.

Leah startles and darts wide-eyed looks between the pair of them for a full two seconds before asking, quietly, "Are you both... on the ace spectrum?" Her face pinches in a preemptive cringe, no doubt unsure whether apparent people of their apparent ages will be familiar with the terminology. Unbeknownst to her, one of them invented internet forums and the other is a voracious reader.

"Just so!" Aziraphale exclaims with all the verve of a professor pleasantly taken aback by an insightful question raised in his lecture.

"Oh!" the young woman says, mouth rounded in transparent surprise. "That's nice," she follows up with, eyes going round with what Crowley's pretty sure is mortification.

Aziraphale, bless him, has literal eons of experience in powering through an awkward moment and replies, "Yes, I certainly think so," with angelic sincerity, and then announces he'll be popping back into the changing room to put on his normal clothes.

Crowley slouches even further back in her chair and tips her head back against the backrest, angling her face up at Leah with an easy smirk on her face. She's not above relishing in another person's social discomfort, but she's also making an effort to keep her body language reading as relaxed and approachable.

Leah fusses with a few garments she has hanging over her forearm that Aziraphale has rejected, resetting straps and smoothing out wrinkles. Crowley waits patiently, stock still except for the gentle sway of the foot she has propped up on her opposite knee. Finally, Leah flicks a glance back at her, flushing a little when she realizes Crowley's openly staring at her.

"Did you both know you were asexual when you got together, or did you..." she trails off with a shrug.

"Happen to get lucky?" Crowley finishes for her easily. "Well, we didn't have the same words for it back then that are trendy today, but, eh, yeah, we knew how we were fashioned. Doesn't mean we weren't also extremely lucky that we ended up fitting together half so well."

"Do you really think so, dear?" Aziraphale asks, stepping out of the changing room and still looking quite scandalous with his cuffs and collar undone, bowtie a limp bit of ribbon around his neck and jacket draped over one arm. Crowley wordlessly stretches out a hand, and Aziraphale hands the jacket over to her care. He does this little flick with his arm to align his cuffs so he can set the cufflinks one-handed, and it gets her every time.

"Of course I do, angel," Crowley says, and then, with irrepressible laughter in her tone, "Oi, watch it. You are literal pornography right now. Don't get us kicked out."

Aziraphale looks at her blankly for a moment before his eyes twinkle and he flips up his collar with exaggerated casualness to begin tying his bowtie with a lot more sensual flair than is really called for. "What nonsense are you on about now, Anthony," he says, vowels going nearly velveteen.

Crowley lets out an exaggerated sigh and turns back to Leah, raising her eyebrows to convey "Do you see what I have to deal with?" Leah, for her part, is looking equally amused and flustered. Angelic charisma tends to have that effect, especially when Aziraphale can be arsed to make an honest effort at it.

"I don't know that I would call it luck, my dear," Aziraphale continues, folding down his collar behind the newly crisp wings of his bowtie. "There's rather too much poetry in how we met. How we continued to keep finding one another. Sometimes I find myself wondering if it wasn't preordained."

Crowley thunks her head back against the chair and groans. "Angel, you're going to have her thinking she should just leave finding a partner up to fate."

The angel scoffs and practically snatches his coat back from the demon to shrug it back on. "Oh, like trusting to luck is of any more use." He turns a beatific smile on Leah. "My dear, may I shake your hand?"

Looking a little punch drunk from having that much divine happiness blasted at her, Leah nods wordlessly and holds out her free hand. Aziraphale, because he single handedly invented the kindly grandperson with butterscotch candies in their jumper pocket archetype, grasps her hand in both of his and brings it up to chest level like he's cradling a baby duck.

"Take heart, dear child. You may have a few heartbreaks in between, but I know you will find a partner that is your match before too long." He says it with just enough of a chime to his tone that Crowley knows he's put a bit of divine influence behind it.

Leah blinks rapidly with a suspicious sheen to her eyes and nods shakily.

Aziraphale beams. Crowley takes an intense interest in the wainscotting.

Later, as they settle in the Bentley, several bags of tissue-wrapped unmentionables tucked in the backseat, Crowley fixes the angel with a speculative look over the rims of her sunglasses.

"Did you really just miracle lingerie girl a guaranteed partner?" she asks, not truly expecting a yes but ready to imply an improper use of divinity if she thinks it might get the angel's dander up.

Aziraphale casts her a censorious glance out the corner of his eye. "Really, my dear."

"Well, what did you do, then?"

"I simply shored up her hope. She's a bright, kind young thing—I have no doubt she'll find a good match, eventually. But, oh, it can be ever so difficult for the ones on the margins to find each other, and I wanted to help her keep her chin up so she'll keep trying."

"You're a soft touch," Crowley says, starting up the car.

"And who was it who singled her out? And so sweetly encouraged her to ask questions?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but singling out young women and encouraging them to ask questions is a bit of a thing I do, angel."

"Oh, hush, you ridiculous creature." Aziraphale chuckles, and reaches over to lay a warm hand on her thigh. "Thank you for today, Crowley."

"Yeah, all right," she grouches, but she threads her fingers through Aziraphale's and squeezes tight, keeping their clasped hands tucked against her belly.

Back in the shop, Leah finishes tidying up the changing room and doesn't fight the happy grin tugging at her mouth. The shop is no stranger to the queer community, but this is the first time she's helped another asexual person, much less an older ace couple. And if those two absolute weirdos found each other, then maybe Angel was right and she'll figure it out too. Feeling inspired, she resolves to dust off her online dating profile when she gets off shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate searches in my web browser history:
> 
>   * Maps: London, UK, lingerie stores
>   * Photos: London, UK, lingerie stores
>   * Plus-size lingerie brands
>   * Catchy lingerie store names
>   * History of men wearing lingerie
>   * History of men wearing corsets and/or garters belts
>   * What are “foundation garments”
> 

> 
> (Y’all, the amount of staring at nubile women in racy underthings I did in support of this fic, when it doesn’t even (properly, anyway) do that much for me…)


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale stops dead on the pavement and lets out an involuntary gasp. "Oh, Crowley, look at that!" he gushes, tugging the demon over to the shop window by virtue of their having already been walking down the street arm-in-arm. Crowley makes a vaguely querulous noise, but when Aziraphale glances up, he sees he's dutifully peering through the shop window. Aziraphale points to the shirt on the display mannequin.

"It's perfect!" he enthuses. "Don't you think?"

When he looks over, Crowley's entire face is pinched in toward his nose in deep confusion.

"Seems a bit... dark for your usual," he comments finally, in what Aziraphale clocks as an attempt at a neutral tone. Oh, bother.

He rolls his eyes. "Not for me, you old silly, for you." He squeezes Crowley's arm against his side in excited emphasis.

Crowley's head rears back on his neck like a startled cobra as he considers the situation again. After a moment, and a speculative head tilt, he lets out a mildly befuddled, "Huh."

"Oh, I thought you'd like it," Aziraphale says triumphantly. While he'd prided himself on speaking passable Crowley prior to the averted Apocalypse, the past several months of more intimate association and, dare he say, _emotional honesty_ have him feeling properly fluent. "Let's go in so you can try it on," he says and begins towing Crowley toward the shop entrance.

"Angel," Crowley protests, his trademark saunter a shade wobblier than normal as he follows. "I've seen it. If I want to wear it, I can just..." and he holds his free hand up in the position of a preparatory snap.

"Yes, but I'd quite like to treat you, after our little excursion the other week," Aziraphale says, and breathes in the subtle note of earthy cologne as they step inside the shop.

It's one of those hideously expensive ones with only a handful of free-standing racks with perhaps ten items per, all hung on thick wooden hangers. The bright white walls are broken up with huge canvases with textured layers of an indigo-looking paint, and there are far too many counters with glass display cases.[1]

A young person—and here Aziraphale squints and settles on "of indeterminate gender"—materializes from the back room and approaches with their hands tucked neatly behind their back.

"May I help you find anything in particular?" they ask in a mellow voice. Their jaw is rather square and they aren't wearing visible makeup, but their mane of hair is obviously styled in soft, shoulder-length waves, and a pair of delicate silver drop earrings complement a silver choker necklace. The three-piece professional ensemble they're wearing is a mix of obviously feminine- and masculine-cut pieces, as well. The flagrant disregard for gender presentation puts Aziraphale in mind of Crowley when he's feeling particularly fluid.

"Oh, yes, we were just admiring one of the pieces in the window," he says, and holds out a hand. "I'm Aziraphale, and I use he and him pronouns," he offers as a leading prompt.

The young person blinks a few times before appearing to remember themselves and taking Aziraphale's hand in a professionally firm, one-pump grip. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Phale. My name is Roan, and I use they and them."

"Charmed," Aziraphale replies, deciding not to bother correcting the poor thing. It's close enough to his pseudonym Fell to pass muster, in any event.

When he realizes Crowley is still lounging upright and showing no signs of participating in the social ritual, he gently elbows him in the side.

Crowley lets out a theatrical sigh. "Call me Anthony," he says, like it's a huge concession. "He and him, I suppose." He doesn't even twitch toward removing his fingers from where he's shoved them in his tiny, designer pockets.

"A pleasure," Roan says smoothly without batting an eyelash, and leads them to the front display to have Aziraphale point out the item under scrutiny.

Of course, once they've located the shirt in Crowley's size, Aziraphale spies another shirt on the rack that looks like it would be quite fetching on the demon. It isn't his signature black, but it's a green so dark that you wouldn't be able to tell the difference in most indoor lighting. Intrigued, he plucks it up and holds it against Crowley's chest, angling it a bit so he can see the color tucked right up against the demon's jaw. Crowley holds himself very still but doesn't object. Aziraphale hums in satisfaction at the subtle warmth it pulls from his dearest's complexion.

"Lovely. This one too, I think," he says to Roan, handing over both shirts so the helpful young thing can go set up a room for them.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says flatly.

"Oh hush, I think it will look quite dapper on you, and it's not so outrageous that it will ruin your gothic rockstar aesthetic."

"My _what._ "

"I've seen your record collection now. I'm not entirely clueless."

"Name me _one song_ written in the last decade."

"That would be much more cutting if you owned a record published in the last three, dear boy."

Behind him, he hears a discrete cough. When he turns, Roan is standing a respectful distance away, expression suspiciously bland. "I have you set up in the first changing room, whenever you're ready."

Aziraphale feels a tiny flush heat his cheeks but affixes a smile to his face. "Thank you. We'll be just along."

Roan melts back into the rear of the shop, straightening already impeccably neat shelves to give them privacy.

Aziraphale turns back to Crowley with a stern look. "I know you're not enthusiastic about shopping, but I would appreciate it greatly if you would indulge me for half an hour. I do so wish to find something you can wear and think of me."

Crowley tips his head back so far he almost loses his balance. From the flush on his neck, Aziraphale assumes his face is bright red. "Satan save me," he mutters to the ceiling before letting his head drop all the way down to his chest. "Fine."

Aziraphale's face aches with the force of his grin, and he can't help darting forward to press an excited kiss to Crowley's temple.

"I promise not to get carried away," he assures, and then turns to survey the rest of the shop with renewed vigor and a determined wiggle. "Oh, this will be fun!"

Crowley groans and follows in his wake.

Aziraphale happily considers various shirts, trousers, jackets, belts, and jewelry, delighting in the feel of different textures slipping through his fingers and weights pressing against his palms. If something passes a visual inspection and brief handling, he'll then turn to drape or press the item against Crowley to ensure his mind's eye isn't mistaken. After a few token protests, Crowley quickly settles into what Aziraphale assumes is bemused tolerance, quiet and mostly obliging.

He does restrain himself once he's selected a handful of shirts, a belt, and a pair of earrings and chivvies them back to the dressing room. A demon's tolerance can only be expected to stretch so far, he knows, and they've yet to try on anything. Besides, he's beginning to get a bit peckish.

Crowley steps out of the dressing room with the shirt from the window and the new belt. The shirt is black with a concealed placket, the better to make the tiny silver studs scattered across the front stand out. Upon closer inspection, the studs are connected by lines of thick black embroidery, revealing the placement isn't random but rather the points of constellations. The belt is a richly dyed dark red leather with a heavy silver buckle made to look like an ouroboros.

"Oh, that does look quite nice on you, my dear," Aziraphale says, stepping forward to run appreciative hands over Crowley's shoulders to feel the lay of the fabric. The fit is perfect enough that he suspects a discrete miracle was employed in the dressing room. "I think the belt might be a bit too dramatic for this particular shirt, but you should try it with the black silk."

He presses his hands against the belt at Crowley's hips, admiring the way it clings and will draw the eye to the ridiculous swing of the demon's gait. From there, he runs his palms up to Crowley's waist, pleased to feel the small ridges and bumps of the ornamentation over the soft cotton blend and the warmth of Crowley's body bleeding through.

"What do you think, dear?" he asks when Crowley doesn't offer an opinion. When he looks up, he's taken aback by the soft pinch to the demon's face. "Dearest?" he prompts quietly. "Is everything all right?"

Crowley jerks a nod. "Yup," he says with a sort of croak to his voice. "Black silk, got it."

Aziraphale frowns at him, puzzled, and draws a step closer, tightening his grip on Crowley's waist. The demon's muscles are rigid under his hands. "Yes, but what do you think of this shirt?" Something has him off kilter, but Aziraphale can't suss out what it might be.

"S'fine, s'good," Crowley says with a deep, unnecessary breath through his nose. "I'll try on the next one, yeah?" he says as he backs out of Aziraphale's grip and nearly brains himself on the edge of the fitting room door on his way in.

Aziraphale waits, thoughts spinning in useless circles, as he listens to the quiet rustle of cloth being moved about behind the closed door. He doesn't think Crowley is uncomfortable or angry with the situation. His go-tos for dealing with those emotions are snark and slightly more incoherent snark, respectively. His fair complexion makes it quite transparent when he's embarrassed, but Aziraphale hadn't noticed a flush. No, he's acting a little like he does when he's feeling overwhelmed by a bit of a tender moment they're having together. Is this a tender moment?

Before he can decide, Crowley's snapping the fitting room door open again and holding his arms out by his sides with fingers spread in subtle display. It's the black silk, and Aziraphale's train of thought is completely derailed.

"Oh, love, you look positively scrummy in that," he says on an exhale and steps forward to run his hands down the demon's arms. "Just gorgeous. I don't think I'll be able to resist touching you in this one," he admits, favoring Crowley with a conspiratorial smile.

The demon's looking a bit dazed. "Too much temptation?" he asks with a sort of breathless quality to his tone.

Aziraphale chuckles and reaches up to straighten the collar, just as an excuse to feel the wonderful, skin-warmed texture against his fingers. "Always," he admits. "Well, you know my opinion. What's yours? It isn't much different from your usual, but it seemed worth trying since I've always thought the feel of real silk is much more satisfying than miracled."

"Yeah, feels..." Crowley trails off and clears his throat, obviously putting on a more belligerent expression. "How is it that you've been dressing like a Victorian dandy for the past century and a half, but everything you've picked today has been both current fashion and something I... don't find objectionable." He presses his mouth into a flat line that Aziraphale thinks, paired with the sunglasses, makes his face look like a caricature drawing.[2]

"I'm not _completely_ blind to fashion," Aziraphale huffs. "I just know what I like. And of course I know what _you_ like, and since you're always keeping up with the latest trends anyway, it's not that difficult to extrapolate."

"‘Of course'?" Crowley parrots back, sounding affronted. "If you're such an expert on what I like, how is it you're showering me in tartan all the time?"

"Well, _that's_ just staking a claim, darling. It is my own personal design, after all."

"You!" Crowley says on a muffled shriek. "That bloody thermos!"

Aziraphale blushes and takes up one of Crowley's wrists in a show of examining the subtle red embroidery edging the shirt cuffs. "Yes, well, I'll admit that was a touch more pointed. I still wasn't sure you weren't going to use it on yourself, you see, and I hoped that if you thought of me when you looked at it you might remember our friendship and think twice."

Crowley's face screws up like he's preparing to relitigate the whole debacle, but then he visibly takes a calming breath and schools his face into his best "I'm being the reasonable one here" expression, which immediately puts Aziraphale's hackles up.

"I am going to go purchase these things, and then we are going home," he says in a tone so calm and poised Aziraphale reflexively scowls at him.

"You haven't tried everything on, yet!" he protests, dropping Crowley's wrist and backing up a step. "How will you know if they'll look right or not? You can't always tell from the rack, you know."

"Angel, I cannot spend another second in this shop. I will try on whatever you want _at home_."

"But if it doesn't work—"

"We can perform literal miracles, Aziraphale. I can send whatever we don't like right back."

"That will wreak absolute havoc on their inventory, you fiend."

"All the better!"

Aziraphale wrestles with the angry ache in his chest and tries to remind himself that Crowley doesn't like shopping, that he finds it boring. The lingerie shop had been bearable due to the novelty, alcohol, and the distraction of "tempting" an impressionable youth. He wants to do something nice for his demon, yes, but that doesn't make Crowley obligated to submit to the form. And it would make a very poor gift indeed if Aziraphale keeps insisting now that Crowley is objecting.

He collects his frayed temper and smoothes it down just as he smoothes down the edges of his waistcoat. The familiar soft velvet under his fingertips is soothing in more ways than one, and it gives him the fortitude to say with regained equilibrium, "Of course, dear. Just hand out whatever you'd like, and I'll settle us up while you change back."

Crowley growls and does some sort of half flapping motion with his arms, shoulders hitching up like he's wishing he had a snake's hood to flare in agitation. Before Aziraphale can do more than feel vaguely put out that he's apparently gotten whatever this is wrong yet again, Crowley flicks a glance back toward where the shop assistant is still pointedly not paying attention to them on the other side of the shop and mutters, "Sod it."

Aziraphale, bemused, finds himself grabbed and hauled forward by the lapels of his jacket as Crowley backs into the fitting room. Once inside, he spins Aziraphale around and elbows the door shut.

"Crowley," Aziraphale admonishes, "you know what that poor dear is going to think we're doing in here. Isn't suffering the indignities of retail Hell enough?"

"Shut it, angel," Crowley snaps and then, at Aziraphale's wounded expression, groans and drops his forehead to the angel's shoulder, still clutching him close by the jacket. "Look, I really need you to stop doing that face you make when the server tells you they've run out of the dessert you'd already picked out. How many gloomy Renaissance painters did you sit for with that martyr face."

" _Crowley_ ," Aziraphale hisses.

" _Aziraphale_ ," he shoots back, raising his face and freeing a hand so he can shove his sunglasses up on top of his head to better glare at the angel. "I like the clothes. And as much as it causes me literal actual pain to admit it, I even like this... whole... thing," he splutters, gesturing confusingly between the two of them, the fitting room, and then wildly to indicate either the shop as a whole or, possibly, the existential concept of shopping.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathes, and raises a hand to press tentative fingers to the slowly rising blush on Crowley's cheek. He is no closer to understanding what's motivating the demon's agitation, but at least he is increasingly reassured it isn't necessarily his fault. "Why are you so insistent we leave, then?"

Crowley swallows and fixes his expression in a sort of grim rictus that Aziraphale knows from recent experience means he's about to admit something that terrifies him. Oh, so this _is_ a tender moment.

The demon rushes out, "I like it too much." He squeezes his eyes closed and grits his teeth. "Can we _please_ go home now? I mean it, you can dress me up all you want, just—not..."

Not where someone else might see him enjoying it, Aziraphale concludes, finally. He can't help the soft smile that blooms. Crowley really is the dearest thing.

"Of course," he murmurs, pressing gentle hands to Crowley's hot cheeks and stroking his thumbs over his cheekbones. "My apologies. I should have noticed sooner. You _were_ being awfully quiet."

"Oi," Crowley warns.

Aziraphale rocks up on his toes to press a quick peck to Crowley's lips and then backs away.

"Well, I think my previous suggestion still holds up. Hand me out what you'd like to take home, and I'll pay while you, hmm, put yourself back together."

Crowley opens his eyes if only to convey with his flat stare that he's registered Aziraphale's phrasing and doesn't much appreciate it. Aziraphale grins at him and beats a speedy retreat.

A few minutes later, he brings their selections to the till, where Roan has already migrated with serene poise.

"Did you find everything to your satisfaction, sir?" Roan asks as they scan every item Aziraphale had picked out and briskly folds them in a stack to wrap in tissue.

"Oh, yes. Thank you," Aziraphale says distractedly, mind racing ahead to the bookshop where he can resume lavishing gentle touches and compliments on his endearingly shy partner with impunity.

"And," Roan says in the sort of delicately neutral tone that brings Aziraphale's attention sharply back to where the young person is trying to catch his eye. "Is everything all right, sir?"

Aziraphale blinks and just barely resists pointing an incredulous finger at his own chest.

"Angel," Crowley drawls, half petulant, half irritated from where he's literally darkening the shop's door, shoulders still a bit hunched and hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

Aziraphale glances from Crowley back to the shop assistant. Roan, for their part, discretely flicks their gaze from Crowley back to Aziraphale and widens their eyes meaningfully. Oh, they must have noticed how out of sorts Crowley was acting and were concerned for the poor dear's welfare.[3]

"Oh, he's quite all right, my dear, please don't worry," Aziraphale hastens to reassure them.

"Angel, come on."

"Patience, darling," he singsongs as he pulls what he realizes is probably an obscene amount of bills from his wallet, judging by the way Roan's eyes widen again. "Er, really, don't mind him. He's just a little embarrassed."

Roan makes a noncommittal sound and takes the cash, efficiently counting out the hundred pound notes and opening the till. As they hand the bag over the desk, they take the opportunity when both their faces are relatively obscured from Crowley's view to say, "If you decide later that things are... not all right, sir, please feel free to call the shop and ask for me directly. I would be happy to assist."

"Oh!" Aziraphale beams at them, quite touched. "What a dear you are. No, I'm sure he'll be fine once I get him home."

"Angeeeeeel," Crowley groans, and Aziraphale feels the edges of his smile turn brittle with annoyance. The dear boy could try the patience of a saint.[4]

Roan's eyebrows rise in polite incredulity.

Aziraphale turns a disapproving moue on Crowley. He gets an obnoxious pantomime of Crowley pointing to his wrist as if indicating the time in response. The irritating twit isn't even pointing to the wrist that has his actual spaceship of a watch on it.

He fixes Crowley with his best bastard smile and says loudly to Roan, "He just doesn't like it when I'm _nice_ to him in _public_." If he makes the word "nice" sound just a bit obscene, well, he's only following Crowley's own precedent.

Both demon and shop assistant make equally inarticulate noises at this pronouncement, with Crowley's trilling up in outrage and Roan's descending down in scanadalized shock. Aziraphale graces Roan with a last angelic smile and a silent blessing for his next paycheque and swans out of the shop with the bag, collecting his still-spluttering demon by the arm on the way out.

* * *

  
1 Aziraphale is just self-aware enough to realize if the color scheme was a touch warmer and the selection felt less "minimalist" and more "curated" he'd probably adore it. It's just so terribly _modern._ [return to text]

2 Though he lacks the pop cultural context to realize it, the specific comparison he's looking for is "Bert Face." [return to text]

3 Bless his decorative heart, but no. Roan was, in fact, concerned that the scowly rude one had made the nice bubbly one sad and then proceeded to haul the nice bubbly one roughly into a small enclosed space where a hushed but intense-sounding conversation had taken place. [return to text]

4 It is, actually, a skill he's listed on his infernal C.V. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate searches in my browser history:
> 
>   * Top gender neutral baby names in UK circa 1990s
>   * Maps: London, UK, menswear boutiques
>   * Top men's fashion boutiques in London, UK
>   * Harrods.com: men's shirts
>   * Matchesfasion.com: men's shirts
>   * Selfridges.com: men's shirts
>   * (et cetera)
> 

> 
> (Y'all I don't know the first thing about men's fashion (ok, fine, fashion in general). Researching for this chapter was like studying a baffling foreign culture.)


	3. Chapter 3

The Extremely Attractive Ginger has been standing at the jewelry case in Thelma's section for too long. Circumstances being different, Thelma would have no problem with this. After providing the standard greeting and offer of assistance, he'd distractedly waved her away, and she'd relocated a few display cases over to give him the illusion of privacy. Incidentally, it was an area where she could observe him without being obvious. If her manager asked, this was to ensure that the moment he looked to need assistance, she'd be ready to help. If her mates asked, it was so she could freely ogle his jaded, gracefully aging rocker look.

The ogling had lost its appeal about ten minutes ago.

Ten minutes ago, she'd realized she hadn't seen him move, at all, in the twenty minutes prior. She'd had other customers, so it wasn't like she was keeping a strict eye on him, which is why it took so long to register that he has not twitched a muscle in the time since he first strolled up to the counter, hands tucked in his back pockets, and turned a contemplative expression toward the wares. Now that she's watching closely enough, she's not sure she can see if he's _breathing_.

Telling herself to get it together—she's relatively far away and he's wearing black-on-black; of course it'd be difficult to see his very normal human chest moving with his very normal human breaths—Thelma briskly crosses to the case and pastes on her best service smile.

"Can I help you narrow down your options?" she asks, subtly eyeing his torso to see if she can detect movement. If that also lets her admire the tight stretch of his shirt over his chest, well, even if he's a vampire or something, a dish is a dish.

He takes in such a deep and sudden breath through his nose that she flinches in surprise. She sends up a brief, half-hearted prayer for her immortal soul.

Without looking up, he says in a pensive tone, "Which of these, do you think, says 'It would be great if you wanted to do that thing again that you said wasn't your favorite but you'd be glad to try again sometime as a special occasion,' hmm?"

Thelma stifles a sighs and tallies the loss of the bet she made against herself that she'd be able to make it until lunch without having to serve an absolute weirdo.[5] Inwardly, she really, really hopes this isn't a weird sex thing.[6] Outwardly, her bland smile doesn't waver.

"I don't believe we have that particular hue of topaz, sir. Our deepest regrets. Nevertheless, I'm sure we can find something that would make a lovely gift. Does your giftee prefer gold or silver? Do they have a particular favorite color? Are they a fan of simple styles or something more ornate?"

The man jerks his head up and pins her with a look. Or, at least, she assumes he does, given his sunglasses are flatly reflective in the fluorescent showroom lighting.

"Attitude," he concludes. "Well done." Then, with a nod, he extracts a hand from his pocket and ticks off on his fingers: "Gold, blue, as fussy as you can make it, but _classy_."

Thelma bobs her head agreeably. If he doesn't mind a bit of attitude, she'll adjust her approach accordingly. Commission is king, after all.

"Jewels, or no?" she prompts.

He shrugs.

"If this is meant to be an exceptionally persuasive gift, it either needs to be jewels or else a set—two pieces minimum," she says decisively.

"That a fact," he says flatly, eyes roaming over the pieces in the display case.

"You could just ask nicely," she counters.

He makes a strangled sounding noise in his throat. Good Christ, just what is he expecting of this poor person. She lifts what she thinks is an eloquent eyebrow and taps a fingernail against the glass over a three-piece set of gold-set sapphires with diamond trim.

"I don't want to pressure him," he mutters.

"Him?" she echoes in mild surprise. "Should we focus on rings, then? Perhaps a watch?"

"No, it needs to be obviously feminine," he says firmly, shuffling in place and crossing his arms over his chest. "Otherwise the message won't be clear, you see? I just don't want something so obviously expensive he feels, I don't know… obligated."

The loud record scratch in Thelma's head is immediately followed by a swooping sensation that's simultaneously disappointed (well, looks are still free, she supposes) and meltingly soppy.

"I see," she says and is newly delighted when he gives her excellent Bert Face at how cooing her voice is. "Does he have pierced ears? If not, best stick with a necklace or a bracelet. Clip-ons can be a bit pinchy if you wear them too long."

He bobs his head up and down vigorously. "A necklace, that's it. He loves bowties, but when he tried femme it was mostly open collars. Neck looked bloody naked."

"In that case, let's try this case over here," she says, walking down to where they have more delicate pieces that don't rely on gems to make a statement. "Gold's been on trend for several seasons now—lucky you. Coin pendants and chains in particular are very in this year."

"Yeah, gonna pass on the chains," he says, tone so dry she assumes a tragic backstory into existence. Then, "Hang on," he says, voice going soft as he takes a side step to the very end of the case and leans so close to the glass his breath fogs up the glass. She tentatively shelves the vampire theory.

"What's caught your eye?" Thelma shifts down and follows his gaze to see he's staring at a gold piece with a segmented chain that transitions at the collarbone into two large, lavishly detailed feathers that overlap gently at the tips. "Ooh, very nice," she compliments. "Very feminine but has some heft to it, and enough gold to make it a proper gesture. And feathers are en vogue."

"Honestly, that's probably a mark against it," Probably-Not-A-Vampire mutters. When she puts on her polite questioning face, he clarifies, "His style is old fashioned."

"Retro?"

"More like antique."

Thelma considers the necklace. "It's pretty modern. Too modern?"

The man's mouth quirks into a soft little smile. "No, I think he'll like it. The feathers aren't properly groomed and everything."

Interacting with this man, Thelma decides, is an unending cycle of emotional whiplash. For every remotely tender expression or statement he makes, he pairs it with something twelve-hundred percent bizarre.

"Well, then," she says firmly, ready to be done with this interaction, "let's get it boxed up nice for proper effect."

Thankfully, other than a small smirk that makes her think he sees right through her attempts at handling him, he doesn't argue and just whips out the kind of heavy, featureless card that only extremely posh bastards carry.

"Good luck," she sends him off with. He waves a negligent hand over his shoulder without looking back, baggie dangling from his fingers as he does a sort of controlled stumble away from her station.

That day there's a two-for-one special at the gelato shop and they have both her favorite flavors, which is a pleasant surprise since it's the wrong season for either. Thelma gives an absent salute with her spoon to whoever the Ginger's mystery man is and, for the sake of their relationship, hopes he speaks cryptic gift giving.

.

.

.

The necklace gets tucked into one of the hidden drawers of the dressing table Aziraphale acquired sometime in the early 1700s to "properly organize" his sartorial accessories. It's sturdy and prim and contains a multitude of the kinds of fussy little indulgences the angel prefers. And given Aziraphale's magpie tendencies, it takes Crowley some time to convince the drawer it has just enough room for the flat, coarse-paper envelope tied with what the shopgirl had assured him was "a charming bit of twine, for that hand-done look."[7]

There are several other delicate accessories secreted away in different compartments of the dressing table. The hulking, late-nineteenth-century armoire looming on the opposite wall is bulging at the seams with the angel's normal wardrobe and Crowley's more recent additions of carefully curated feminine blouses, skirts, dresses, and shoes. So far, Aziraphale either hasn't discovered any of the mysteriously appearing gifts or is ignoring them.

For all that Crowley feels flush with embarrassed warmth every time he finds something he just knows will delight the angel and perfectly compliment the lushly angelic composition of his even-more-soft corporation, his insides churn with anxiety anytime he thinks about presenting them to Aziraphale outright. Hence, the creepy pawing through the angel's furniture.[8]

On the one hand, Aziraphale told him quite clearly on the one occasion he tried wearing a median woman-shaped form that, after so long in it, he was just more comfortable in his man-ish corporation. On the other hand, the angel had also said trying out a woman-ish shape had been fun and he wouldn't mind doing it again sometime, especially if Crowley liked it. And Crowley… had liked it. A lot. Aziraphale in a median woman-shaped form was the epitome of soft. The platonic ideal of voluptuous. Like having a really nice bed and then adding a down-filled mattress topper and duvet—you just wanted to lie down and roll around in the luxury of it.

The point is, now that Crowley has experienced a sample of the form, he's eager for another taste. The last (only) time, Crowley had been wearing his own woman-ish corporation, which was a bit softer than his normal, and he has a darkly abiding curiosity about what it would feel like to rest his rather pointy man-ish limbs on all that delectable angelic plush, that's all.

And he is fairly convinced that if he tried to express this desire to the angel it would come out wrong and make Aziraphale think Crowley likes that other shape better than his normal. He doesn't. It was just a different experience, and he hasn't had the opportunity to fully revel in it yet. But as much as he wants for himself, he wants to avoid hamfistedly hurting Aziraphale's feelings more. And while squirreling away girly trinkets for the angel to accidentally find and then, somehow, intuit that Crowley wants him to—no pressure—know it would be neat if he tried being median woman-shaped again is by no means a good plan... it is the best one he's been able to come up with to this point.

All this is to say that when Aziraphale comes down the stairs the next night for their date at the new French place, Crowley is properly gobsmacked.

 _She_ is wearing an outfit entirely composed of gifts Crowley has left for her: A long, satiny cream skirt with gold burnished closed-toed kitten heels, a peach-blush scoop-neck cashmere jumper, a multi-strand natural-pearl bracelet, her normal gold ring (relocated to her middle finger), and the new gold feather necklace.

Her expression is caught between coolly regal and mischievous as she comes to a stop on the last step of the stairs, maintaining the ability to look down at him where he's frozen by the bannister.

"My dear, you'll catch flies," she coos, tapping a cheeky, peach-toned polished fingernail to the underside of his jaw.

"Argk," he replies, and then clicks his mouth closed. His gaze bounces from the luxurious curls brushing her jaw, the slightly glossy sheen on her perfect lips, the graceful slope of her neck into her shoulders that's so flagrantly on display. And the presents: They all look just as amazing on her as he thought they would. And she's wearing them—voluntarily! She's made a _production_ of the whole thing.

"Thank you for my gifts, darling," she says, voice warm and knowing and far too smug. "How do I look?"

He takes advantage of the temporary height imbalance and turns his head to rest his face against her clavicle so his cheek just barely rests on the beginning swell of her fantastically luxurious bosom. "Lovely, angel," he sighs.

Aziraphale giggles and brings a hand up to scratch at the short hairs on the back of his neck, in just the way she knows makes him shiver with sensation. "I thought since we've not been to this place before, it would be safe to go together in this configuration."[9]

Crowley winds his arms around her waist and does a quick revel, pressing as much of himself to her as he can while vertical. And sweet Satan's knickers, it's like the physical manifestation of hugging a cartoon cloud. Everything from the jumper under his palms, the forbidden skin against his temple, to the gentler-profile cologne she's sporting in his nose, is soft, soft, soft. He briefly thinks about suggesting they just stay in so he can get right to trying out all possible combinations of draping their current forms together, but discards it. Aziraphale is _really_ excited about the reviews for this place.

Aziraphale indulges him for a full five minutes, keeping one hand in his hair and the other draped loosely over his shoulders, before she clears her throat. "Dearest, our reservations," she reminds him.[10]

He lets out a comically long sigh for effect before lifting his head, nuzzling in briefly to kiss the tender spot on her throat where her Adam's Apple is missing.

"Oh!" she exclaims, flustered, and leans back in his embrace a bit.

He straightens and feels his eyebrows climb in surprise. "Sensitive?"

"I wasn't expecting new erogenous zones," she grumbles, sounding half intrigued and half put out, rubbing a hand over the spot to scrub away the sensation.

He hums in sympathy. Nothing quite so awkward as an unexpected jolt of knee-jerk arousal. At least, for beings of their persuasion. "I'll keep clear," he promises and then waggles his eyebrows. "Unless—if you have an appetite for some fun after dinner, I'd be _up_ for it."

Aziraphale rolls her eyes at the pun before her expression turns thoughtful as she considers the offer. Ultimately, she shrugs and takes up his arm and makes the final step down off the stairs. "Not particularly. Though of course I'll let you know if the mood changes."

He bobs his head up and down in a "fair enough" gesture and leads her to the door. "Let's see a Frenchman about some duck."

.

.

.

By the time they've placed their orders, Crowley is deeply regretting his decision not to beg the angel to let them reschedule so he could get straight to reveling. He's underestimated his own pent-up longing to see her in this form again and to get every version of his greedy demonic paws all over her. It feels, if he's honest, a bit like those pre-Apocalypse days when he'd sometimes stare at Aziraphale over the rim of a wineglass or his his own tightly clenched fist and wonder fatalistically if his yearning might take spontaneous physical form and crawl into the angel's lap in desperate supplication.

They're in public, is the thing. And it's not like he can just put out an infernal suggestion of "nothing to see here" so he can do a bit of discrete pawing and yearning in bloody peace. For one thing, he doesn't want to distract his angel from properly experiencing her dinner. For another, Aziraphale is doing that thing where she's throwing off contentment like pheromones that make you soppy instead of horny, which means any infernal suggesting he might try would be about as effective as throwing a gauze scarf over a bloody angel-shaped sun.

The host had warmly complimented Aziraphale's outfit when they'd sat down, and it had been one hundred percent platonically sincere and tooth-rottingly sweet, so Crowley couldn't even work up a good bout of jealousy. And, of course, Aziraphale had beamed like a bloody speed capture of a sunflower blooming and run her soft fingers over the back of Crowley's hand and said, "Oh, I can't take any credit. My beloved darling here picked every piece—he has _such_ an eye for fashion." And then the host had turned to him in delighted surprise and exclaimed, "Sir, congratulations on your excellent taste in both couture and lovely dining companions." Aziraphale had tittered and squeezed his hand in bubbly joy, and Crowley had grimly ordered his corporation to stop pumping blood to avoid embarrassing himself by betraying an emotion.

That began, unfortunately, a pattern. If he didn't know better, he'd think the angel was purposefully luring people to stop and pay her compliments on various elements of her outfit. Realistically, though, he thinks it's more likely an unconscious manifestation of her desire to show off her gifts and, by extension, him. It would be tragically gallant if it weren't doing his head in every time she not only talks sweetly about him but also goads complete strangers into complimenting him directly as well.

His body runs hot and cold simultaneously as he fights to keep a neutrally pleasant expression on his face through it all. Every kind word from Aziraphale is like a hand soothing down mantled feathers, and every supporting addition from their server, the chef, the lady passing by on her way to the loo, is like someone ruffling those feathers back the wrong way.

Finally, as the main course is winding down, Crowley sees the elderly woman at the next table over making appreciative eyes at either Aziraphale's quite magnificent bosom or (more likely) the feather necklace, and he snaps.

"Angel, a word?" he says, quiet but terse.

Aziraphale's attention breaks from the last bite of something with potatoes and truffle sauce to him, and then flits around the room assessingly. "Yes? What is it. Have you seen something?" she asks, low and hushed and urgent, and Crowley's simmering irritation transmutes into chagrin. Though they haven't heard a peep from their respective offices in over a year, the specter of condemnation and consequences still catches the angel (and, all right, him too) by the throat at odd moments.

"No, no, nothing like that, angel," he reassures, leaning into her space and placing a comforting hand on her forearm where it rests on her lap.

She takes a deep breath through her nose and places her fork neatly on the side of her plate. Crowley's close enough to hear and see the faint tremble to everything, and it twists his black heart in knots. Suddenly, his concerns feel petty by comparison.

"Oh, of course—silly me, jumping to conclusions," she says, not making eye contact as she grimaces a small smile and takes a judicious sip of wine. All the same, she turns over her hand in her lap in a silent request, and Crowley slides his hand down her arm to intertwine their fingers.

"Stop that," he admonishes without heat. "But anyway, never mind. We can talk later, at home."

Aziraphale squeezes his hand in rebuke and turns a devastatingly entreating expression on him, eyes twinkling with angelic earnestness. "Darling, don't be like that. Something has you in a state. Tell me, please." Then, when something in his face must give away that he isn't swayed, she narrows her eyes slightly and says, "I'm afraid I won't be able to enjoy dessert fully with the wondering."

Bastard. Crowley rolls his eyes, trusting she's close enough to see the shadow of movement through his sunglasses. "Fine. Just. Could you not—? Just. Tone it down a bit, yeah? With the, ah—" He swallows down the tightness creeping up his throat. "—the compliments."

She blinks rapidly and leans back, but her grip on his hand doesn't loosen. "Oh, dear. I thought…" She huffs out an exasperated breath and brings her other hand over so she's cradling his hand between both of her own. "Oh, I've botched it again, haven't I. My apologies, dearest. I thought if I wasn't complimenting you directly, it wouldn't be as, er, potent." She rolls her eyes at herself and then cuts him a glance out of the corner of her eye as she frees a hand to take another sip of wine. "And here I was thinking myself so clever that I'd found a way to be nice to you in public without making you uncomfortable."

Crowley is frozen between equally strong pulls of awe and outrage. He clears his throat a few times before croaking out, "How could you possibly think that manipulating an octogenarian into calling me a 'dear sweet thing' to my _face_ would be _less_ mortifying than being nice to me directly."

Aziraphale blushes and brings her wine glass back up, though this looks more like a gulp than a sip. She hums around it before swallowing and conceding, "Yes, I see your point."

Her face falls then, and she puts the glass back down and, to Crowley's horror, turns in her seat to face him more directly, bringing his hand up to clutch closer to her chest.

"Oh, but I just want so much for everyone to know how wonderful youuuuu—" She catches the menacing lowering of his eyebrows and takes a verbal left. "Your gifts are! I'm sorry, Crowley, I truly didn't mean to embarrass you." At his thin-lipped expression of patent doubt, she winces. "Well, not to this extent, anyway." Her face screws up in frustration; even that's adorable, with her perfect cupid-bow lips and miraculously bouncy blond curls. "Oh, fiddlesticks," she grouses.

Crowley sighs and lets go of the last of his irritation. Clearly, his angel is an idiot of the highest order, but he has enough self-reflective insight to realize she's basically pulling the angelic equivalent of his creepy bedroom lurking. Desire makes an idiot of even the most competent; a pair of only barely functional supernatural beings don't stand a chance.

"Don't worry about it, angel. Just… for the love of someone, stop." He realizes he's only encouraging her when he tugs her hand over to press a quick kiss to the back of her fingers before dropping their linked hands back below the edge of the table, but it's worth it for the soft smile she favors him with. He almost tells her that just the moment when she first came down the stairs in this shape and decked out in all his careful care was simultaneously as much appreciation and reciprocal gift as he might ever need, but isn't sure he'd be able to force it through his teeth without discorporating on the spot.

"Yes, of course—of course!" Her face is a picture of contrition. "Oh, but now I feel like I've tarnished our evening. Is there something I can do to make it up to you?"

Crowley feels his eyebrows levitate into his hairline and can't help the incredulous smirk that stretches his lips. Really, the angel should really know better than to give a demon such a blanket invitation.

Aziraphale's expression melts from earnest to mildly rueful, but she doesn't rescind or even qualify her offer. She must really feel bad.

Crowley bares his teeth in a feral sort of smile. "Oh, angel. I think I can come up with something," he purrs.

.

.

.

When they get back to the bookshop, Crowley herds Aziraphale toward the back staircase that leads to the efficiency flat.

"OK, here's my plan," he says, cupping the angel under one elbow and looming a bit over her shoulder as she walks placidly with an exaggerated swing to her hips. "My plan is to get me down to my skivvies and then you into my infernal clutches. Thoughts?"

"If that's what you'd like, my dear, I have no objections," she says, and then, just when her foot is on the first stair, she pauses. Crowley skids to a halt on his tiptoes to avoid plowing into her back. "Oh, but surely I should pick out a few books first? If you're going to be having your wicked way with me for very long, I wouldn't want to get bored."

"Bored?" Crowley squawks and balances a hand on the railing so he can twist his upper body around in a move far too serpentine and fix her with an outraged glower. "Oi, addendum to the plan: You're to pay me your undivided attention."

Aziraphale dimples sweetly and leans over the scant inches it takes to press a tender kiss to the corner of Crowley's mouth.

"Forgive me, dear. Of course I'll pet your hair. You had only to ask."

Crowley snarls through an impressive blush and hauls her up into his arms bridal style. He finds the mild indignity of stomping up the stairs with a giggling angel clutching at his shoulders preferable to waiting to see what other teasing stalls Aziraphale would have come up with to send him round the bend. This is supposed to be about her making up to him, damn it.

The glower he gives the door is inspiring enough that it leaps open without a trace of its normal creak. Once inside, he dramatically sweeps toward the bed and gently lays Aziraphale against the pillows. She smiles up at him, toeing her heels off to gently kick over the side of the bed and folding her hands over the delightful swell of her belly.

"Shall I disrobe as well?" she asks.

"Don't you dare," he says, snapping himself down to just black silk pants and scrambling up onto the bed and over her.

As soon as his head is within reach, Aziraphale is scratching her perfectly manicured fingernails lightly against his scalp. This is both excellent and a little defeating, as it short-circuits the remaining fragment of coordination his lanky corporation possesses, and he collapses less gracefully than intended on top of her.

He lets loose the full-body groan he'd been stifling for the better part of the dinner as soon as his skin comes in contact with the cool slide of silk and plush warmth of cashmere. He rests his cheek between the generous swell of her breasts and wriggles his arms around and underneath her waist so he can put as much of himself in contact with as much of her as possible. Meanwhile, Aziraphale has begun stroking her nails in long sweeps down his back and up again over his neck and the back of his skull, over and over. Gooseflesh prickles over his entire body, and he shivers.

"How's this, darling?" she murmurs.

Crowley opens his mouth around a croaking sigh and quickly gives up on speech. The different sensations of the smooth skirt, the soft jumper, the tickling pressure of Aziraphale's nails, and the warm vibrations fuzzing through his skull as she begins tunelessly humming crash over him in a wave of sensation, and his higher-brain functions are being dragged out to sea by the riptide.

After a few minutes of swamping pleasure, Aziraphale flattens her hands and the scratches turn into a dragging rub. She paints heavy, sweeping, symmetrical patterns over his shoulder blades, down his spine, up the curve of his ribs, along the lean muscles of his upper arms. Then, she's kneading along the back of his neck, pressing gentle knuckles into the knobs at the back of his skull, rubbing gentle circles into his temple, cheekbone, down the line of his jaw.

When he sighs, he can feel individual knots of tension reluctantly unkink along his back, hips, and even, weirdly, his feet.

"How lovely you feel," Aziraphale whispers, and tips her head down to press a kiss to the crown of his head. She ends her massage by wrapping one arm across his shoulders and using the other to entirely encircle his head with her hand over his brow, cradling him to her chest with palpable tenderness. She's a furnace of angelic beneficence, and Crowley—an irredeemably besotted snake creature—basks for all he's worth.

At some point, he nods off.

When he next rouses, it's to a mouthful of blond curls. Aziraphale, now naked but for a pair of what he's pretty sure are the hand-embroidered bloomers trimmed with blue satin ribbons he found for her a few weeks ago, is spooned into his chest. The arm he has thrown over her waist she's clutching between her breasts like cuddly toy. He can feel slow, measured puffs of breath against his knuckles where his hand is tucked just below her chin. With sluggishly dawning surprise, he realizes Aziraphale might actually be asleep. Asleep, and pinning Crowley in place with her hair in his face.

After a minute of hazy consideration, he wriggles further up the bed and rearranges limbs so he's twined more completely around her with his head tipped so it's his cheek, instead of his mouth, pressed against her curls. He's just relaxing into the adjusted position when he feels her twitch and tense, hugging his arm to her more tightly.

"Go back to sleep, angel," he mumbles and rubs a thumb soothingly against the skin over her collarbone.

"Didn't mean to," she rasps, but begins to relax again.

"S'good," he declares. "You snore," he lies.

The angel kicks a heel half-heartedly into his shin. "I do not." And now she's sounding far too awake, much to his chagrin.

He drapes a lanky leg over her hip and bends the arm he'd wedged under her neck back up across her chest, clasping her upper arm to cage her in. "Sleeeep," he insists, rubbing his cheek against her hair.

" _You_ snore," she accuses prissily.

"Sure," he agrees in the tone of voice that absolutely conveys he's humoring her. And, bless it, now he's mostly awake too. Enough that he knows he'd have difficulty dropping back off again when they're this tangled up. He gently frees his left arm from her death grip and rubs apologetic circles into her soft belly. In retaliation, she latches onto the arm he still has banded across her chest and squeezes his forearm with just enough bite of primly manicured nails to let him know she's annoyed with him.

"These the ones I got you?" he asks, tugging lightly at the frilly waist of the bloomers. It's not a particularly subtle redirection, but needs must.

"Of course," she says, sounding a bit mollified by the reminder of his sneaky gifting habit. Crowley gives himself a mental high five.

"They feel nice." He shifts his legs lightly to feel the soft cotton rub against his skin where their legs are pressed flush.

"They do," she agrees, and then more softly, "you know just what I'll like."

"You started it," he reminds her.

Aziraphale hums noncommittally.

"Roll over," he invites.

"What for?" she asks, even as she's already scooting around in the circle of his arms.

"I want to feel all those curves," he says with a leer, folding his long limbs back around her once they're aligned chest to chest, foreheads lightly touching. "Yeah, that's it," he hisses, reveling in the voluptuous press of her thick belly and breasts against his slender chest. It's even better than the last time they'd done this, without the inevitable awkwardness of two pairs of breasts smooshing into one another.

Aziraphale has one arm pinned under the pillow beneath his head, but her other is free, and she's using it to pet fondly at the hair at the back of his neck.

"Did you have any more plans for the day?" she asks quietly, the words puffing intimately against his mouth. Her breath is miraculously fresh. "Or shall I pencil in being in your infernal clutches for the foreseeable future?"

He cracks an eye open and leans his head back so he can see her properly. "How long can I tempt you to be clutched?"

"Oh, quite a while, I'd imagine," she assures him, patting his hip in a proprietary way. "I did wonder if there will be tea breaks, though? Perhaps you could be persuaded to clutch while I'm just a touch more vertical? Perhaps leaned against some pillows?"

"You drive a hard bargain, angel," he replies after a considering moment. "Ten more minutes?"

Aziraphale answers with a lingering kiss that melts him boneless.

They don't leave the bed the whole rest of the day. Crowley spends most of it dozing with his head variously nuzzled in the angel's lap, against her belly, between her breasts, and in the crook of her shoulder. Aziraphale makes it through two pots of tea, three mugs of cocoa, several plates of tea delicacies, and two and a half books, reclining decadently against a veritable mountain slope of pillows. It's not terribly different from what they've done on a handful of other occasions since they came to their new understanding after the Apocalypse, but it's the first time in this particular configuration of body shapes, so Crowley's inclined to mark it for the books.

* * *

  
5 Since she's not a fool and has been working retail for the past five years, a loss means she treats herself to gelato on break. [return to text]

6 Five years in retail: She's pretty certain it's a weird sex thing. [return to text]

7 Crowley had been reluctantly impressed by the manipulative genius of mass-produced packaging made to look handmade so it could create the impression that the arsehole who had picked up a trinket from the shops had somehow had a personal hand in bringing said trinket into existence. Aziraphale would absolutely find it charming. He'd asked for extra loops on the bow. [return to text]

8 He is excruciatingly aware that sneaking into the angel's room to dig through his private things is creepy. However, considering the inherently "kind" implications of wanting to delight your supernatural other with nice things, he figures it all balances out. [return to text]

9 They'd made the mistake of showing up to the Ritz recently when Crowley was wearing his median woman-shaped form. The waitstaff had been downright frosty, and Aziraphale had been wilting in befuddled hurt until Crowley cottoned on that they thought his angel was stepping out on him. He'd had to make a big production out of introducing himself as Anthony's twin sister Antonia visiting from the South, which likely only landed because he'd laid on a fairly thick infernal patina of "everything's perfectly platonic here" over everyone's impression of their evening. Lesson learned, they now kept to different restaurants when Crowley changed shape so significantly it couldn't be explained by a good contour. [return to text]

10 It isn't even a put on. She may have made them only this morning, with a bit of ethereal influence to ensure success, but it's the principle of the thing. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate searches in my web browser:
> 
>   * 2019 UK fashion trends accessories
>   * images: gold feather necklace
>   * types of necklace chains
>   * history of men’s dressing routines, furniture
>   * history of dressing tables and vanities
>   * images: 18th century dressing tables
>   * history of wardrobes and armoires
>   * images: 19th century armoires
> 

> 
> Y’all the amount of research rabbit holing that can go into literally two sentences of vague description…


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley eyes the stairs leading to Aziraphale's flat warily. Last night, she'd been gently but efficiently remanded to Mayfair for the evening under strict instructions not to return to the bookshop until the following morning for a "surprise."

"Please keep this shape, dearest," Aziraphale had requested even as he'd ushered Crowley out the door.

"Why, exactly?" she'd asked, bemused but not yet cross. Aziraphale had been acting twitchy all afternoon, smiling to himself randomly, sometimes pleased and sometimes outright smug, and giving Crowley a blushing "never you mind" when she'd tried to call him on it.

"You'll see. Come up to the flat tomorrow around ten o'clock? Just let yourself in." And with an overflow of what Crowley could only assume was gleeful anticipation, Aziraphale had leaned in to plant a smacking kiss to her lips and then cheerfully slammed the bookshop door in her face.

And so, as requested, Crowley is arrived and apprehensive, squinting up at the shadow of the door she can see at the top of the stairs and wondering if she can divine what the angel might have waiting for her beyond. She's not a big fan of surprises, as a rule, unless she's arranged them. Her track record on surprises ranges from an unexpected boot from choir practice to being selected for demonic stork duty, so… Then again, when Aziraphale has truly managed to surprise her over the millenia, it's almost always been positive, from flaming swords to oyster lunches to tartan-covered thermoses.

With a grim sigh, she trudges up the stairs, hands stuffed deep in her blazer pockets.

"Oi, angel," she calls as she flicks a lazy knock on the door. Beyond, she can hear the faint strains of piano music. Something romantic; maybe Chopin, but it's too muffled to pin down.

A moment later, she hears footsteps rushing to the door. She has just enough time to register the muted click of heels, so she's not entirely surprised when Aziraphale flings the door open to reveal she's changed her corporation for whatever this is. What Crowley was _not_ expecting was for Aziraphale to answer the door decked out like a midcentury housewife welcoming her long-lost love home from the war.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale trills in palpable excitement, reaching forward and grasping her by the hands to draw her through the doorway. Crowley allows herself to be led forward, attention locked on the absolutely ridiculous but somehow still charming ensemble Aziraphale has decked herself out in for the occasion. The peachy-cream matching set of lace-toped silk bra and french knickers with lace panels along the hips is something they picked out together when they visited that lingerie store a couple of months ago. The sheer, floor-length peignoir with cream-colored rabbit fur trim at the collar, sleeves, and hem is new. So are the thigh-high stockings and the peach-colored satin heels with elaborate bows on the toes that fold back over the top of her feet, shaped to look a bit like rabbit ears.

"Angel," Crowley belatedly responds, feeling equally dazed by the overall presentation and amount of angelic skin on unexpected display. "Been shopping?"

The impish look she gets in response sets off alarm bells in the back of her mind.

"Oh, darling, I have such a day planned for us. I do hope you'll enjoy it. I think I've finally figured out the trick to it, you see." She bounces up on her toes, making the peignoir slip off one shoulder and all sorts of things jiggle quite distractingly in their lacey silk.

"Er," Crowley responds, words momentarily stalled by the visual feast, but gaze catching on the set of pearls adorning the angel's neck. They're joined with a front-facing gold clasp done in the shape of a leaping rabbit.

"What's, um," she starts and stutters out, some sixth sense already prickling that she's not going to like the answer to her question. "What's with the rabbit theme? Some sort of tribute to that furry bastard Harry? Oh, no," she groans, the thought playing to its logical conclusion: "don't tell me this is some sort of kinky close-up magic thing."

Aziraphale's face pinches up adorably in confusion, perfectly glossed lips glinting in the soft lamplight of the room. "What? No, of course not," she says, glancing down self-consciously at her shoes and releasing one of Crowley's hands to fiddle with the necklace clasp. "It's not like I've been making a proper study of it, but I thought it was a _thing_ for modern lingerie sets to be rabbit themed?" she trails off uncertainly, expression already falling in reaction to whatever Crowley's face must be doing.

To be frank, Crowley isn't sure what's happening with her face because she's too distracted by the twin pulls of horror and hilarity at war inside her. Honestly, you show up at a fancy dress party for an up-and-coming peddler of sin dressed as a sexy bunny and make small talk with the nice hostess _one time._

"Is it not right?" Aziraphale asks, voice pitching up in a wavering prelude to a full-on wail. "Oh, I thought I had finally gotten it."

To Crowley's horror, there are actual tears springing in the corners of the angel's beautifully tragic eyes. For Satan's sake, the changes when she toggles over to factory standard woman shape aren't overly dramatic, but the slight softening to her jawline and the added plumpness to her lips and eyelashes upgrade the devastating softness of the angel's expressions to weapons grade. It doesn't alter Crowley's instinctive response to a distressed Aziraphale, but it does make her feel a bit more sympathetically soft when she does so, drawing the angel closer and clasping her firmly by the biceps and ducking down the crucial inch in height difference so they're truly eye-to-eye.

Her words trip and tumble on their way out in her rush to reassure, "Hey, no, no, no, angel, it's fine, you're gorgeous, you didn't get anything wrong."

Aziraphale's gaze is meltingly hopeful as she blinks rapidly and tips up her chin, obviously fighting not to fall completely to pieces. "But rabbits aren't a thing, are they," she confirms, voice only slightly wobbly as she brings her hands up to cup Crowley's elbows and draw her infinitesimally closer.

"Ohhhh, angel," Crowley breathes, not able to help the devilish grin that flickers over her mouth. "They're a thing all right, but it's not usually done quite as...angelically as your interpretation."

Aziraphale's eyes flick rapidly between Crowley's eyes, though who knows what she's able to glean from behind the sunglasses; this pair is especially opaque. Abruptly, her eyes narrow and her mouth flattens out. "This is one of your temptations coming back to haunt you, isn't it," she concludes, tone flat.

Crowley chokes on air. "Wha—how—?"

The angel leans back, though she doesn't relinquish her grip on Crowley's arms. "You looked properly spooked at first, but now you've got that expression you get when you see someone trying to prize up one of your pavement coins."

"I may have unintentionally inspired an early version of a certain iconic sexy costume design back in the sixties," Crowley admits.

Aziraphale rolls her eyes but then clearly decides that she's not going to pursue the subject. A quick tug at the air and the rabbit clasp is now a pair of outstretched wings and the fur trim fluffs into feathers. The shoes she simply slips her feet out of and shifts to the side with a nudge of a stockinged foot. The loss of the few inches the heels afforded her puts her at a bit of a disadvantage to Crowley's heeled boots, but it does allow her to affect a devastatingly coy gaze up through her lashes and an even nicer view of her lacey cleavage. Crowley feels the back of her neck prickle with heat.

"Well, never mind all that," Aziraphale says firmly, tone and words softened by the small smile that's begun to tug at the corners of her mouth. "I refuse to let your past wiles get the better of what I have planned."

"Oi," Crowley feels obligated to protest, "s'not like _I_ told you rabbits were the done thing."

Aziraphale ignores her and instead draws closer so she can slip her arms around Crowley's waist in a loose embrace. "I have been giving the matter of our recent exchange of gifts a lot of thought. I feel I've been rather clumsy in my efforts to show you my regard, dearest, and so I've been trying to learn from my missteps so I can properly pamper you."

The hug was strategic, Crowley realizes. If it weren't for the angel's arms trapping her close, she probably would have scuttled back toward the door in mortification. "Er," she manages, and it's her turn to grip the angel by the elbows to steady herself. "Angel, really, you don't have anything to prove. I know how much you, um, regard me."

It's still hard to say the words. There isn't anything properly stopping her except for 6000-plus years of fear-driven social conditioning and self-preserving habit. Still, she's only managed to choke them out the once under the cover of darkness, a mound of bed linens, and the warm bulk of an angel pinning her safely to this earthly plane. She thinks it's in a misguided but sort of sweet solidarity that Aziraphale reserves them for hushed, secret occasions in kind.

True to form, Aziraphale doesn't correct the word choice, simply deploys her dimples in a sickeningly soft smile. "I know, but it's been bothering me that I keep making a right tit of myself and embarrassing you when all I really want to do is spoil you like you're so good at spoiling me."

Crowley shrugs helplessly, trying to convey in the motion the letting of bygones and whatnot. But she can't deny that the angel's stubborn insistence on "getting it right" is more than a bit endearing. It makes something squishy and warm turn over in her chest that Aziraphale has apparently been mulling things over in her clever mind like a puzzle to solve, or a tricky bit of translation to crack.

"Now, if you'll allow me, my darling," Aziraphale continues, "I'd like to dress you up in a few things I've picked out that I think would look quite fetching on you." She angles her body away and sweeps a hand out behind her to indicate the room.

Crowley's gaze finally flicks up to take in fully the rest of the room. For the first time she notices that the dressing table's front panel is lowered open with a handful of jewelry pieces and a few decorative combs resting on the surface. The armoire's doors are wide open, with a number of dressing gowns and peignoirs in shades of black and red hung on display, and the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed is covered with several sets of lingerie. The small table and chairs from the kitchenette have been dragged closer to the bedroom nook, and a repast of champagne, fruit, and chocolates is laid out across the tabletop.

"Here?" she asks.

"In private," Aziraphale confirms.

Her nonessential heart has started pounding, and she feels a pleased flush crawling up her chest in anticipation of Aziraphale's soft, firm hands petting over her skin and soft, firm voice dropping compliments in her ears about how nice she looks in the things Aziraphale has picked out especially for her. Except now, there won't be anyone to see if she needs to take a minute to press her face into the comforting plush of the angel's belly to regain her moorings.

"Does that sound like something you'd like to do?" Aziraphale prods gently, eyes searching Crowley's face, looking, she realizes, for confirmation that she's finally got the parameters right. The daft, brilliant angel.

"Yep," Crowley croaks out, dredging the bottom of her composure for even an ounce of remaining cool. "Sounds like a lark."

.

.

.

Something like an hour passes in a blissful haze of gentle touches and wickedly kind words. After several wardrobe changes, Crowley's in something of a mirrored outfit to Aziraphale's own ensemble: a black lace cathedral bra with red silk paneling peeking through, black silk french knickers with tasteful red lace trim, and a thigh-length dressing gown that's sheer from the waist down, rose-patterned lace up top, and with a wide silk belt holding it closed. She's perched on one of the chairs, a half-full glass of champagne sitting on the edge of the table, the stem in the loose grip of her fingers. She's holding very, very still because Aziraphale has been carefully plaiting her hair in a complicated crown design that's to be ornamented by a hammered silver hairpin topped with a winding serpent with ruby-set eyes. There's quite a lot more gentle stroking of her neck and jaw and temples than she'd figure for hair braiding, but her skin is tingling too pleasantly for her to call the angel out on it.

"There, finished," Aziraphale murmurs, running her hands down the sides of Crowley's neck and squeezing lightly at her shoulders. "How are you feeling, darling? Do you want to take a look in the mirror?"

Crowley drags her attention up from the floaty, dozey place she'd fallen into as she'd been focusing on the feel of the angel's hands on her and straightens up in her chair, taking a deep breath.

"Ss'good, angel," she says, not quite sure if she's answering the right question but not really in the headspace to care overmuch. "Maybe in a minute."

"Hmm," Aziraphale hums behind her, rubbing strong thumbs up and down her trapezius muscles for a minute. Crowley melts into the feeling, slumping back into the chair and tipping her head forward. When Aziraphale drags her hands away not even a minute later, she whines in the back of her throat in dismay.

"Nah, angel, more," she cajoles, reaching her free hand up grope blindly behind her to recapture the magic hands and put them back on her.

Aziraphale chuckles and circles around to stand in front of her chair. Well, Crowley thinks, that's certainly an alternative, and tips forward to press her cheek into the angel's abdomen, nuzzling aside the loose gap of the peignoir to get at bare skin. When Aziraphale cups the back of her neck to hold her in place, Crowley takes it as permission to drag both arms around so she can slide her hands up the back of the angel's thighs and get a couple of firm handfuls of her lush bum. The silk of the knickers on the backs of her hands is a cool contrast to the warm softness of the angel's skin, and Crowley presses closer for a proper revel, rubbing her cheek against Aziraphale's plump belly.

"Darling," Aziraphale coos, petting over Crowley's neck and the side of her face. "You're making me regret putting your gorgeous hair up."

"You can undo it," Crowley mumbles helpfully. She could go for a bit of hair petting.

Aziraphale tuts. "You haven't even gotten a proper look yet. You're simply stunning, dearest. Perfectly tempting."

"Admiring your own work, angel?" Crowley counters, words slurring a bit with the amount of treacly contentment she's stewing in. "Rather prideful of you."

The angel giggles. "Wicked creature," she says. "Would you like to stay like this, or retire to the bed? We could bring the nibbles with us. I have a mind to hand feed you some of that dark chocolate you like."

Crowley groans and slithers upright to drape her arms and chin over the angel's shoulders. "You are going to be the death of me," she grouses, hitching a thigh up over Aziraphale's hip in silent request. Aziraphale obligingly dips to get a firm grip on the backs of her thighs and hoists her up so Crowley can wind her legs around the angel's waist properly and coil as close as she can get in her human corporation.

"I'll take this as a yes," Aziraphale says smugly, and in a casual display of angelic strength hooks just one forearm under Crowley's arse, easily holding the demon up as she reaches with her free hand to pick up the tray of half-eaten chocolate and fruit. It's a short walk to the bed, and Aziraphale sets the tray on the bedside table. When she makes motions like she would set Crowley down on the edge of the bed, the demon clings like the wily serpent she is and refuses to let go

"Dearest," Aziraphale says, fighting to sound reproving, but there's too much mirth in her tone for Crowley to take her seriously. In silent protest, she tips her chin down and lightly bites at the meat of the angel's shoulder.

"Oh, you," the angel complains and smacks a gentle objection to Crowley's backside, which just makes the demon snicker around her mouthful of flesh.

With a world-weary sigh, Azirapahle takes a firmer grip of Crowley's thighs and knee walks onto the bed, turning at the head so she can sit and lean back against the pillows without dislodging her passenger. In reward, Crowley presses a quick kiss to the bite mark and snuggles down into the angel's lap, winding her arms around Aziraphale's chest and resting her cheek on her collarbone so her mouth is available for hand-fed chocolate.

"Are you quite comfortable?" Aziraphale asks once she's settled their dressing gowns around them to her satisfaction.

Crowley hums in response, nuzzling upward until the bridge of her nose slots into the nook between Aziraphale's jaw and neck. If she concentrates, she can feel the angel's pulse flickering against the skin between her eyes.

"Jolly good," Aziraphale murmurs, eliciting a faint snort from Crowley, and relaxes back into the mound of pillows, hands trailing mindless patterns over the demon's back, hips, and thighs.

Crowley lets herself settle into a good old-fashioned cling, squeezing her arms and legs and pressing her face more fully into the angel's neck periodically just to enjoy the visceral sensation of Aziraphale whole and lush and present and hers. Meanwhile, Aziraphale idly plays with the fringe of Crowley's dressing gown, traces fingers over the lace roses dotting her back and arms, and even slips a hand up under the gown to gently test the elastic give of the straps of her new bra and the waistline of the knickers.

Crowley is just starting to doze when she feels Aziraphale stretch an arm out, and then a second later there's a slight pressure against her bottom lip. She fights a smirk and dutifully opens her mouth a fraction so the angel can neatly slip in a sliver of chocolate. It's something like eighty percent cacao, and she lets the bitter treat just sit on her tongue and melt as it will. When Aziraphale make an inquiring hum about another piece, she shakes her head and just stops herself from rewarding the angel with a kiss to her neck, remembering at the last minute the discovery of unexpected new erogenous zones.

"Well, my dear," Aziraphale says sotto voice, turning her face to press the words against Crowley's hairline, "how do you like your gifts? Is this an experience worth repeating?"

Despite her best efforts, a besotted grin stretches itself over Crowley's mouth. "Are you fishing for compliments, angel?" she asks and levers herself upright so she can look Aziraphale full in the face.

For her part, Aziraphale is looking chuffed to bits with herself, mouth pursed in a little smile and eyes twinkling. Instead of replying, she runs her hands down over Crowley's shoulders and sneaks them under the opening of the dressing gown to settle on her waist. The glance she favors Crowley with from beneath her decadent lashes is almost a sin itself it's so smug.

"Yes, all right, well done," Crowley acknowledges. "I'm feeling proper spoiled. You can wipe that look off your face, now."

"Hmm," Aziraphale replies, affecting a thoughtful expression and kneading softly at Crowley's waist, "I don't think I shall."

Crowley would swear to Satan's own face that she couldn't have resisted leaning forward just then to kiss the smugness right off the angel's face for anything, even if she'd a mind to try. She keeps it short because now that she's pulled herself together a bit more there are a few questions tugging at the back of her mind.

"Did you go back to that same shop?" she asks in between placing careful busses to the angel's cheekbones and temples.

"Yes, in fact, I did," Aziraphale hums, eyes fluttering closed as she tips her face obligingly to accept the kisses. "That dear girl, Leah, helped me select a few items."

"Did you go like this, or…?"

"Oh, no, I went in my more accustomed shape since I felt reasonably sure she would remember me, and therefore you and your particular style. And she did remember, the dear thing, and had some wonderful suggestions. Did you know, she's been trying her luck at dating again?"

Crowley leans back, and if she thought Aziraphale's expression was smug before, it absolutely does not compare to the beatific righteousness radiating from the angel's face now.

"Really," she says, stretching the word out. "Any prospects?"

"No sparks yet, but she's been on a few very pleasant dates. She was quite pleased she's not had nearly as much trouble this go round connecting with people either of her own persuasion or who are genuinely open to dating someone on the asexual spectrum."

"A miracle," Crowley rejoins dryly, bringing her arms up so she can cup her hands around the back of the angel's neck.

Aziraphale gives a pleased little wriggle and leans her head back into the grip of Crowley's hands.

"Why this shape, today?" Crowley asks, because it's been niggling at her.

"Oh, I thought it would be fun if we were wearing the same thing."

"You didn't have to change shape for that, angel," Crowley points out, gently tipping the angel's head back and forth in her hands, enjoying the trusting weight against her palms. Aziraphale's eyes have slipped closed, but she opens them to half mast to reply.

"Oh, but Crowley, these ensembles are all for this particular shape of yours. I have a whole other set for when your proportions are different." She closes her eyes again, relaxing even further into Crowley's hold. "A few of the pieces will translate, naturally, but you can't discount the importance of properly fitted bra, dearest."

Crowley is torn between the intrigue of yet more gifts and possible dress up sessions and the certainty that much more pampering from the angel today might literally discorporate her. "There's more?" she asks, voice a bit pitchy.

Aziraphale cracks open an eye and smirks. "For another time," she reassures with a soothing rub up and down Crowley's sides. "You know, when I don't go so far as making an effort, this form is quite comfortable. I might try it more often."

"Has its charms," Crowley agrees readily, glad for the return to the earlier subject.

"I don't have to be looking to know you're staring at my breasts, Crowley."

She's absolutely right, and Crowley hasn't a pinch of shame. "Angel, I cannot possibly convey to you how bloody fantastic they are. Just—amazing." To punctuate, she gently pulls back her hands and cups the angel's breasts with all due reverence.

Aziraphale's laugh is belly deep and joyful, and she graciously brings a hand to the back of Crowley's head to encourage her to rest her cheek on the heaving swell of them, which the demon accedes to greedily.

"Yes," she hisses, rubbing her cheek against soft skin and scratchy lace. "Hear me out, and consider: Breasts, always, no matter what shape the rest of you is."

"Darling, be reasonable. Most of my wardrobe wouldn't fit anymore. My favorite coat!"

Crowley tsks. "I'll buy you more."

Aziraphale heaves a theatrical sigh, and Crowley lets out an equally theatrical moan, cuddling her face down into the inviting warmth of the angel's cleavage.

"Impossible serpent," Aziraphale giggles, scratching at the back of her neck and making her go shivery all over.

"Get you anything you want," Crowley insists, voice muffled.

"Oh, dear heart," Aziraphale sighs, "I have you. That's gift enough."

Crowley groans and blindly grabs at one of the pillows to gently bludgeon the sap out of her ridiculous angel. Aziraphale just laughs and hauls her up by the cheeks to press her case with a kiss. Given all the effort she's put into the day, Crowley feels it's only sporting to let her have the win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Props to my artist [Marleenam](https://marleenam.tumblr.com/) for showing me the shoes that inspired both Aziraphale's outfit and, by extension, the entire rabbit holing (ha!) into the Playboy temptation tomfoolery.
> 
> Unfortunate searches in my browser history:
> 
>   * History of bridal lingerie, trousseau
>   * Modern bridal trousseau
>   * Images: vintage lingerie
>   * Images: vintage peignoirs
>   * Images: rabbit theme gold jewelry
>   * History of Playboy Bunny costume design
> 

> 
> Also: uncounted searches related to the history of "the boudoir" and its connection to bedroom salons, the French Enlightenment, women's evolving role in philosophical discourse, housing architectural development, all the way through to boudoir photography and the history of the pinup. All because I had a half-remembered impression from some English course that "hey, wasn't it a thing back in the day for French ladies to have intimate gatherings between friends in the bedroom—was that a real fun/intimate experience that Aziraphale might try to replicate?" And ULTIMATELY after probably hours of research was like "wow, this is both not enough and too much for what I'm going for" and scrapped the entire idea.


End file.
